


The Human Guard

by ilovelocust



Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: Anal Sex, Champion Shiro (Voltron), Guard Keith, Imprisonment, M/M, Possessive Keith (Voltron), Power Imbalance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-09
Updated: 2018-12-09
Packaged: 2019-09-15 00:41:16
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 4
Words: 3,455
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16923351
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ilovelocust/pseuds/ilovelocust
Summary: Shiro hasn't seen another human since they took Matt away to the mines, so when one appears to escort him to his new match.  Is it really any surprise he wants to know more.  When nothing is familiar, we hold onto anything that reminds us of home.Keith's a half breed that joined the military because a shit job as a prison guard is better than someday ending up a prisoner yourself.  He could have never predicted the Champion's arrival in his cell block.  Beautiful, strong, and possessing the very same features Keith sees in the mirror everyday.  Can anyone blame him for exercising one of the very few unofficial perks of his job?  When you own nothing, you are ever the fiercer guarding that what you do.





	1. First Meeting

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning, this AU will jump around in time. This was based on a thought post and several scenes that stood out and interested me.

Shiro is hallucinating. He has to be. There is no other option. He, Matt, and Mr. Holt are the only humans in space, and even if there were somehow another floating around the Galra Empire, they would not be standing outside his cell in a guard uniform that does nothing to hide the cream color of their skin or their lack of fur. Definitely hallucinating, maybe that spiny toad creature he’d fought yesterday had something toxic in the slick covering its back. Certainly made more sense than his current reality.

A loud bang makes Shiro jumps, “I said stand up and present your wrists.” His hallucination orders. He’s angrier than he was a few seconds ago, the shock baton that seems to have materialized in his hand certainly makes him seem more real, or may Shiro just doesn’t feel like testing his grip on reality against the possibility of more abuse. Let the other prisoners think he’s talking to walls. They already avoid him for being the Champion. This will hardly change things.

Shiro scrambles to his feet and presents his wrists at the door for cuffing. The view from here is even more like some weird fever dream. He’s short, barely up to Shiro’s chin. Which wasn’t so strange back home, but out here, in space, he’s gotten used to craning his neck upwards to look a guard in the eyes.

The hallucination finishes snapping the cuffs in place then opens the door for Shiro to walk through. It’s a familiar drill, and he hardly needs the order to “Walk” to take his place in front of his escort. Two right turns, one left, straightaway, elevator. Their heading to the arenas. Maybe the guard isn’t a hallucination, maybe he’s just an alien. Shiro’s seen every variation of limbs and teeth and claws imaginable since being brought here. Is it really so improbably that one of them might look like a human when all you could see of them was their jaw and neck?

But the skin texture is right for human, and the teeth, and the voice and the height. Plus, the Galra came in a lot of shapes and sizes, but he had yet to see them employ other aliens as guards yet. Which would preclude the possibility of a human guard and circle back around to the hallucination theory. Assuming Shiro’s not still back in his cell having a bizarre dream, he won’t be able to trust his senses in the next match. At this rate he’ll probably walk out on the sands and see a cute little bunny rabbit.

They round the last corner to the prepping area, and the weapon’s overseer comes into sight. A fat bastard who seems to consider his job in life taking bets from other guards and accepting bribes to make sure certain prisoners walk to their deaths with the blade equivalent of a butter knife. Right now he’s busy looking at Shiro like he’d shown up to the arena in his birthday suit, “Where is your back up soldier!” The overseer shouts, and Shiro’s guard misses a step in surprise. Shiro dutifully stops and waits as the Overseer storms over, “All high profile inmates are to be escorted by two guards or four sentries.”

He doesn’t need to see his small guard’s eyes to read the look of skepticism at Shiro being “High Profile”. If the status had been something to be proud of, the judgment might have hurt his ego. As it is, he’s more preoccupied with how the overseer looks completely normal, as do the few other prisoners that he’s gotten to know by sight since being transferred to this vessel. The only one out of place is his guard. How?

The mystery will have to wait, one of the other armory guards is motioning for Shiro to approach. He has a fight for his life to prepare for, and the question of the human guard cannot be answered if he is dead.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was written and first posted on Pillowfort. If you want to keep up with other things I make, follow ILoveLocust over there.


	2. Showers

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've decided. I'm going to purposefully post out of order. Makes it easier, for me to jump back to interesting stuff if I get some inspiration later.

The champion is a deadly beauty. Muscles strong and defined under the prisoner rags. Metal arm hot death through his opponents. Jaw sharp and prominent with a lack of fur to soften them, and he's so small. Like a great warrior made in miniature. 

It's only natural that Keith wants to claw him up, then fill him with his cum. Who doesn't? A body like that, still splattered in the viscera of his latest fight. Anybody would jump at the chance to get a taste of him, but only Keith gets to feel the reality.

Keith snaps his hips forwards, digging his claws into muscled flesh, as the Champion claws at the tiles below them. Shaky moans muffled by the ratty shirt hastily shoved in his mouth. Keith laughs breathlessly, "Quiet, unless you want an audience to your debauchery," The Champions eyes widen, and his teeth clamp down on his shirt.

Keith swells with possessive pride. Yes, the Champion wants for none other than him. Belly exposed, ass held securely in Keith claws, thick cock dripping sticky pre-cum over arousal flushed skin. The Champion would let no other put him in this position.

No one else can smell the tangy sour scent of his adrenaline, and know he's ready for them. Can massage the arena bulge between his legs and have the Champion curl into them. Hoping for a chance to ride Keith's cock.

Keith's close. The Champion's hot walls urging him onwards to that high. He wraps his hand around the sensitive flesh of the Champion's dick. Jacking him in time to Keith's thrusts. This is his, and Keith takes care of things that belong to him.

The Champion come first, muscles contracting tight as he lets a out a too loud moan and his cum shoots messily over his chest and Keith's hand. It's good, it's satisfy that growling possessiveness in his gut, but not quite enough. Keith fucks him through his orgasm, from the arching muscles to loosening relaxation onto the less than pleasured whimpers on the other side.

Hands tug at his own, more a request to let go and pull out than a fight. Keith fucks him harder. Chasing his own orgasm in the quivering flesh until the sounds of discomfort below him are replaced with his own gasping cry. He bites down into the skin of the Champion chest, tasting blood, as he spills his seed deep inside. His.

The afterglow is languid and pleasant, at least until Navson pokes his head into the shower room, "You've got three dobashes left," the Champion gasps, hands flying down to cover his cock in pointless modesty. Ass in the air, Keith still balls deep inside, a carefully place hand is hardly going to cover what they were doing.

"Understood," Keith says, pulling out and wiping off the mess covering his dick on the Champion's thigh, "Clean up," He tugs the human to his feet and then pushes him towards the nearest shower head, "I'll be outside."

Keith's not waiting. If the Champion's not dressed and ready to go when the times up, then he can be escorted wet and naked to his cell. He's far too valuable of prisoner to ever be entrusted to only one guard, and if Keith wants to keep Navson willing to accept bribes to look the other way, then this has to not become more hassle than its worth. Those sweets the scaly bastard likes aren't cheap after all.


	3. Mine

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Why should a half-breed be the only one to get access to someone like the Champion?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Non-con/dub-con?

Keith sees red. There’s blood on the Champion’s face, someone’s claws sliced his cheek, before or after they punched him hard enough to swell and bruise. His prisoner garb isn’t sitting right, even considering the tears, too loose, flapping free like the back is gone, and then there’s the smell, even his half breed nose can pick out that scent. He’s snuck into this very cell one too many times not to be intimately familiar with what sex smells like. The growl in Keith’s chest is matched only by the sound of the Champion’s tight fast breaths as he approaches. Muscles tensing as if he’s in a condition to fight off a kit right now. Keith escorted the Champion to his cell two hours ago. He’d been whole and sound, fresh off a victory with a beast that failed to leave a scratch. Now, he seems to have lost several.

Keith grabs the Champion’s chin, turning his face, as he bats away the fist that swings for his gut. His neck is covered in bites, and the rags that are left of the back of his uniform do nothing to cover how there are more further down. One, two, three, three distinct sizes, that’s all Keith needs to know, “I’ll kill them,” Keith growls. The eye that’s not swollen shut widens, as Keith turns and marches from the cell.

He’d seen them. Leaving the cell block, dull scratches and minor bruises, only one barely limping. It had been something about that smirk. A passing thing, but noticeable for how it seemed to say “I showed you,” Like he’d pulled one over on the half-breed. They didn’t work this section. They had no legitimate reason to be here. That was enough to send Keith running to check the only thing on this ship that he owned and didn’t carry with him at all times. Well now he knew what they’d done, and now they were going to pay.

Finding them is trivial, he’d heard something about food as they walked away, and there is only one meal hall worth a damn nearby. He’s barely through the doors before he spots the dead men already at the table enjoying their food. He garners attention as he storms across the hall. Bored guards seeing the impending explosion not headed in their direction and rubbernecking for some minor entertainment. Keith stops as the trio looks up, “I challenge you,” Keith says, pointing his blade at the largest one. There's a moment of blank shock, like he can’t comprehend someone half his size seriously wanting to fight him. His mouth opens to dismiss, but Keith isn’t here to be ignored, “I said, I CHALLENGE YOU!”, Keith shouts, backhanding the guard’s meal to the floor.

Anyone who wasn’t watching before is watching now. The silence is deafening. There is no ignoring him now. The big guard’s hand slams on the table, a roar of anger, as he all but throws himself out of his seat. The beginning of freight train charge, cut short as Keith’s knife embeds itself hilt deep in his eye. It comes out with a slorp of brain matter and blood, and Keith ends any chance of survival with a follow up to the back of the neck. The big one falls to the ground lifeless, and Keith turns his eyes to the next.

“I challenge you,” He says and there isn’t a Galra in the room who doesn’t hear him. This one’s smarter than his friend. Looks to the growing crowd for a weapon instead of charging straight to his death. Someone produces a blade, it does him little good. Keith has practiced every day of his life with his knife, in sickness and health, since he can remember. This guard obviously hasn’t touched a sword since basic. Keith is up on the table and coming down on his unprotected side before he can embarrass them all with his fumbling attempts at a defensive pose. His armor does little to keep his guts inside as Keith unseals his stomach, and he cuts the man’s throat just to stop the screaming.

One little trespasser left. One little disrespecting bastard who’s backing out of his seat and away from Keith finishing his friend. It hardly needs to be said, but he does it anyways, “I challenge you.”

The guard shakes his head, “I don’t accept,” He says, backing away.

Keith matches his steps, “I challenge you, coward,” He repeats, as his victim’s escape is cut off by another guard stepping in the way. Victory or death, there is no retreat, even for the lowliest scum like themselves.

No one offers this one a weapon, and there is only murmurs of approval as Keith slices him mouth to ear. He cuts his achilles out of spite. If the guard is lucky, someone will grant him death before they send him to the arena in shame. He won’t be getting such a mercy from Keith. 

Keith turns to the crowd, “They touched something that wasn’t theirs, and were too pathetic to back up their claim.” He kicks the bleeding coward for an emphasizing moan of pain. A beat, no one volunteers to avenge them. Good, Keith steps over the corpses, head held high and the crowd parts and lets him leave. Later, he will either die for this trespass, or be shown a modicum more respect from those who do not wish the shame of losing to such an obvious half-breed. Only time will tell which it will be. For now, he has something more important to do.

The Champion is in much the same state Keith left him. Less than an hour has passed and the most he has done has been moving from the floor to his hard cot. The room still smells of sex, and Keith’s nose detects the tinges in it that say its not his. One grey eye focuses on the splatter of blood and other bodily fluids that have decorated Keith’s arms and parts of his torso during his spree. It flicks to Keith’s face, a question without words in its depths, “I’ve dealt with them. They will not return.” There isn’t quite relief, but tense muscles loosen just a bit at his statement.

Now to asses the damage, “Stand up,” The Champion blinks, not moving. “Stand. Up.” Keith orders, frustration bubbling up. If he has to repeat himself, one more time tonight, he swears. Thankfully, he doesn’t have to. The Champion remembers his place, and unfolds from his huddle on the bunk. It’s impossible to miss his wince as he stands.

“Turn around,” Keith orders, the Champion gingerly complies. His back is a mess. Burn marks and hand print bruises, tell a more detailed story than words. You can be the greatest fighter in the world and one electric prod combined with shear mass can make all that pointless. Keith ignores the flinch as he runs his fingers over a particularly prominent electrical burn, before turning his attention lower. There’s cum, dried and died pink, leaked down between his thighs. They left their trespassing marks inside it seems.

He places a firm hand on the back of the Champion’s neck, to remind him whose in charge, before sliding his fingers between those cheeks. A palm slaps the wall, as Keith shoves two fingers inside, a choked off noised dying in the Champion’s throat. Despite the trembling he’s loose around Keith. Parting easily when he scissors his fingers apart. He pulls them out and examines them in the light. Cum, pink, some other disgusting things, but also the faint slickness of oil. Good, if they’d torn him, Keith would have had to have gone for a medic to fix the injury. Better for this to stay between them and the dead. Leaves more time for fixing the other problem.

Keith lets go of his hold and steps towards the cot, “You reek of them,” He says as he sits. He can smell it every time he gets close. A constant reminder to the growling possessive beast inside him, that someone touched what was his. Shower time is not for another day, and all that would do is wash away the other scents, not reassert his claim. Thankfully, fighting always gets him hard. Keith undoes his pants and pulls out his cock, pumping a couple times to get himself ready.

He looks up, and the Champion is watching him. Still as a statue, “Come here,” Keith orders. He moves in front of him, stiff and clumsy like a sentry, “Sit,” Keith gestures towards his lap. The Champion hesitates and Keith growls, “Don’t make me make you.” He’s the only one armed between them. The only one uninjured. He could turn on his electro baton and shock the Champion until he pissed himself, then fuck his twitching useless body, and they both know it. Just like they both know that that’s exactly what the others did and he still fought them. The Champion crawls into his lap and Keith guides his cock home.

It’s not Keith’s best fuck. The Champion’s hole is too loose, and he won’t clench down. Won’t do much of anything, not even make a sound as his raw hole is fucked into again and again. That’s fine. He can curl into Keith, hide his face against Keith’s shoulder, where his neck is in easy access for scenting. Keith will do the hard work of lifting him up and down on his cock.

“You’re mine,” Keith whispers into his skin as he rubs his own scent in, “No one is allowed to touch you without my permissions,” He strokes along a trembling back, “No one is allowed to scent you without my permission,” He cranes his neck to kiss a tear stained cheek, “And no one is allowed to fuck you but me.” He bites down as he cums. The possessive thing in his gut unclenching as he resets his claim.

He pulls the Champion off his softening cock. Rolls them both to lie flat on the bed. The Champion was no help at all during the act, but now that it’s over his hands fist tight in the back of Keith’s uniform. A not so subtle plea for Keith to stay. He’s always seemed to enjoy snuggling up to Keith when he’s done, maybe even more than the sex itself. He should get going. He can’t really afford to get caught with his pants down after that show in front of the other guards. At least not until there has been a group consensus on if they’ll just off the insolent half-breed or not. Then again, who would think to look for him here? Maybe, he can afford to indulge in little nap. Just this once.


	4. Maybe

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Some conversations are really hard to start.

The small guard is back again. Shiro hadn’t seen him since the time he’d escorted Shiro to the arena alone. He’d begun to question if he’d dreamed the encounter. A desperate fantasy of a lonely man, wishing for some piece of home no matter how strange. The man standing at the door of his cell is no dream though. Shiro hurts far too much for this not to be happening.

He steps inside, weapons holstered as he closes the cell door. He’s being reckless, no other guard would enter a room with the Champion without weapons drawn. This human guard doesn’t seem to care. He approaches Shiro as if he’s no more dangerous than a kitten. Maybe he knows Shiro’s wounds are barely patched and to attack now would hurt Shiro far more than himself, or maybe he sees a human face as well and knows Shiro won’t hurt the first of his kind he’s seen in this hell.

He stops a few feet from Shiro’s cot, examining him quietly. Shiro could ask him now. Know for certain if he’s fooling himself or if he truly has found kin here. Then again, if he is just vainly hoping, and this is simply another pale breed of Galra, is he better off for knowing he’s alone?

The guard breaks the silence first, “Your claws aren’t retractable.”

Shiro blinks, “My what?”

The guard gestures down to Shiro’s remain flesh hand, “Your claws,” He repeats.

His nails, he’s talking about Shiro’s nails, “They aren’t supposed to,” Does this mean the guard’s does? Is there something inhuman behind the helmet and uniform that Shiro simply can’t see, “They’re also not claws. Their nails.”

The guard softly sounds out the word, before bringing his attention back to Shiro, “Your..nails, aren’t very good.” He says simply.

There really isn’t a response to that, and they stare at one another in silence, until it becomes clear the guard doesn’t plan on saying more. “Are your nails, very good?” Shiro asks, tentatively.

The guard frowns, staring down at his gloved hands, “No.” Shiro’s hopes raise, just in time for something to beep on the guard’s belt. He doesn’t say anything just turns on his heels and hustles towards the door.

“Wait,” Shiro calls. The guard stops, looks back at him, “Are you like me?” He doesn’t say human. Claws vs nails, somehow he already knows human would mean nothing to him.

The guard tilts his head, thinking, “Maybe,” Then he’s gone.


End file.
